


Survival Is a Talent

by notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Gen, Heavy Angst, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Mental Health Issues, Scars, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer
Summary: The first time Dean purposefully made himself bleed, he was twelve.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 111





	Survival Is a Talent

**Author's Note:**

> “I told her once I wasn’t good at anything. She told me survival was a talent.” --Susanna Kaysen, Girl Interrupted.
> 
> Warnings: Fairly specific self-harm; suicidal thoughts; emotional child abuse and probably neglect.  
> A/N:  
> If you are struggling with self-harm or suicidal thoughts, please talk to someone. A counselor, a friend, a parent (if your parents are decent), a crisis hotline operator. Anyone. If you don’t feel like you have any good options, then you can always talk to me. I’m i-know-how-my-story-ends on Tumblr. I have no training or anything, but I’ve been there, and I’m always here for anyone who needs someone to talk to.  
> Always keep fighting.
> 
> On a more cheerful note… Thank you for reading, I appreciate all of you guys, and feedback makes my day :)

* * *

The first time Dean made himself bleed he was twelve.

John knocked a beer bottle over and it shattered. Dean scrambled to help pick up the pieces and sliced his hand open on a shard.

“Dean?” John was at his side in an instant. “I told you never to touch broken glass, damn it. Are you hurt?”

Dean uncurled his fist. Blood pooled in his palm.

“Stupid,” John muttered. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Dean went to sleep with his hand wrapped in gauze.

Two days later, John told Dean to take care of Sammy and left for a week.

Dean locked himself in the bathroom and dug the tip of his pocket knife into the cut on his hand until it reopened.

He washed it out, wrapped it again, and made Spaghettios for Sammy.

As time went on, his self-destructive acts slipped from convenient to routine. 

Dean was fourteen and doing homework when Sam asked, “Dean, why are your legs all scratched up?”

Dean furtively tugged his too-short jeans down. “Shut up, Sammy.”

“Dean?” John asked. “What did you do?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”

“Dean.” John’s tone brooked no disagreement.

Dean pulled his pant leg up with his eyes on the floor. His face went hot in the silence.

“Sam, go outside,” John ordered.

Sam huffed and slammed the door behind him.

At least Sammy wouldn’t have to know how weak Dean was.

John stood looking at Dean for a long moment. 

“This stops now,” John said. “You hear me? Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

John left Dean to feed Sam while he headed to the nearest bar.

Dean tried to stop. He knew it was stupid, it was just--

It was just the only way he could _breathe._

Dean gave in after three days. It wasn’t even that bad a night-- John was tipsy and Sammy was crying, what else was new-- but it broke his already wavering resolve.

Dean took a knife, went into the shitty hotel bathroom, and sliced into his thigh.

He exhaled. The tension slid from his shoulders.

His boxers covered the cuts well enough.

Dean made the mistake of cutting his forearms three times. John saw when Dean didn’t pull his jacket on fast enough.

“You need to stop this shit.”

“I’m trying,” Dean whispered. To his shame, tears prickled in his eyes.

“There is no _trying._ This is stupid.”

John looked Dean over and sighed. “Take up running or something. Lots of people with issues run.”

Dean didn’t think running would solve the way he wanted to leave and never come back. 

In a small, furtive act of rebellion, he didn’t take up running. It was the one suggestion of his father’s he didn’t ever take.

He took up drinking instead.

Dean kept his cuts to his upper thighs from then on.

Dean told himself he was doing better after he dropped out and started hunting more with John. He cut less often, felt a little more numb and a little less like broken glass, and, on good days, he could convince himself he was doing okay.

Sam started arguing more; John started drinking more.

Dean stole beers and drank on the Impala’s hood as far away from his family as he could get.

It was fine. 

He was fine.

Sam left them (left Dean) for something better. John left Dean so he didn’t have to look at his other failure of a son.

Dean scarred his wrists up now that there was no one left to see.

He still didn’t take up running. Instead, he switched from beer to whiskey, and he took up smoking.

His ribs gained several round burn scars. Every time he inhaled poison, he half-hoped this would be the thing that killed him.

John vanished. Sam came back. Dean stopped smoking after a few rounds of judgemental bitch face from Sam.

Hunting with Sam was the closest to feeling okay Dean had come in a long time.

It was almost good.

Dean did his best to keep his scars covered. He’d gone from living alone to living with Sam 24/7, though, and he’d gotten careless.

After a long day, Dean forgot to bring a shirt into the bathroom before his shower. He walked out shirtless, rubbing a towel over his hair. Sam looked up.

“Did you take all the hot w--”

Sam stopped short. Dean rolled his eyes.

“No, Samantha, I didn’t take all the hot water.”

“Dean,” Sam said carefully. “What happened?”

“What?”

“To your, uh…” Sam gestured at Dean’s torso.

Dean glanced down, honestly startled.

 _Shit_. He’d forgotten.

“Oh. That.” Dean feigned casualness and rummaged through his duffel with shaking hands. “Yeah. Hunt went wrong. It’s fine.”

“Dean,” Sam breathed. 

“What, Sam?” Dean snapped, throwing down the shirt in his hands. “Dad was gone, you were gone, it’s not like anyone gave a fuck about what happened to me. It’s fine.”

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean was already out the door.

Dean went to sleep late that night. The guilt from deceiving Sam churned in his gut.

It had been necessary. It still sucked.

Sam tried to ask a few more times, but Dean shut him down.

Soon enough, Sam had bigger problems than some unexplained burn scars.

The time between Dean’s deal and the Hellhound went by in a blur. He drank and fucked and cut his way through the year. He pretended to believe that Sam could save him.

(That he could be saved.)

~

Then.

Hell.

Alastair found his scars funny.

~

Dean got brought back to life with none of his old scars. The nicks from knives and razors, the cigarette burns, the scars he’d been given and given himself--

They were all gone. He was left with a handprint on his shoulder. He hated his rescuer for that. 

They’d taken away the only thing he’d ever been able to control.

He was fine, though.

Dean was fine.

He had to be fine for Sammy.

Cas popped up out of nowhere the sixth time Dean cut after getting back.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said. “Why are you purposefully injuring yourself?”

Dean swore and yanked his sleeve down. “The fuck, Cas?”

The angel tilted his head. “I felt that you were in pain.”

Dean pointed the knife at Cas. It only shook a little. “Go away.”

“No.” Cas angled his chin up in the stubborn way that Dean had come to dread. “I rebuilt every atom of your body. I want to-- I _deserve_ to-- know why you are hurting yourself, Dean.”

Dean threw the knife down on the counter. “Fine.”

“Your shirt is getting blood on it,” Cas told him. 

Dean sighed. “Fantastic.”

The angel grabbed his arm. There was a brief flare of blue-white light and Dean felt the cut seal up. The blood stain vanished.

“Explain,” Cas ordered.

“I do not understand. This makes you feel _better_?”

Dean shrugged and opened another beer. “Yeah. Kinda. Mostly. Shitty, but better. Good.”

“I do not--”

“Yeah, Cas. You said that.”

Dean drank while Cas contemplated him.

“To my understanding,” Cas said, “humans usually self-harm in association with mental illness or abusive households.”

Dean dug his nails into his arm. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Cas said. “No, you’re not. But you don’t need to be.”

Dean didn’t know what that meant. 

“I’m always fine.”

Castiel looked almost… sad. He stood in a swirl of tan trenchcoat. 

“I do not understand, but I care about your wellbeing,” the angel said. He pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead. The burning sensation Dean associated with Grace swirled over his skin.

“I returned your scars,” Cas said, stepping back. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks, Cas,” he croaked.

The angel inclined his head and vanished.

Sam got back from the grocery store and set his bags on the floor. 

“I talked to Cas,” Sam said. “He, uh, had some things to say about you.”

Dean folded his hands behind his head and stretched out farther on his bed. “Oh?”

 _Fucking snitch,_ he thought furiously at Cas.

Sam sat on the other bed. Dean kept his gaze on the ceiling.

“You could have told me,” Sam said softly.

“I didn’t want to.” Dean reluctantly turned his head to look at Sam. 

Sam’s eyes were wet. “Why?”

“‘Cause it’s just another reason I’m worthless and weak. ‘Cause it’s stupid.”

“No,” Sam said. “No, Dean. You’re not worthless, you’re not weak, and it’s not stupid. And I will never, ever think less of you for what you had to do to survive.”

Dean turned his head away. A tear slid down his nose and he swiped it away angrily.

The next time he felt the tension rising and saw Alastair in his own reflection, Dean cut into his thigh with a straight razor.

The time after that, he walked out of the bathroom and said, “Sam, let’s watch a movie.” Dean’s voice was shaky enough there was no way Sam didn’t catch on, but his brother didn’t comment.

The time after, Dean dragged a knife across his ribs. The time after, he went across his forearm.

The next time, Dean ran his fingers over the scars Cas had put back, forced himself to leave the bathroom, and told Sam he didn't want to be alone.

It wouldn’t help change how most nights Dean thought a little too hard and a little too long about a gun against his temple and oblivion.

He wasn’t good, and he wouldn't ever be good. But maybe he could try to get better.

Dean did get better, or at least that’s what he told Sam and himself. He didn’t cut as much anymore. If he got into too many fights, if he reopened wounds too many times to be accidental, if he was a little too reckless, he could shrug it off.

He was fine.

Some days, Dean thought he might even be okay.


End file.
